by Jen Storer
For days on end they bodysurfed, rode dodgem cars, watched acrobats balance on each other’s heads and living statues tip their hats for money. They rode on the Paratrooper and the Tilt-a-Whirl, and Angus won an entire collection of ‘highly flammable’ stuffed animals from the shooting gallery. They gorged themselves on fish and chips, dim sims, Spearmint Chews and corn chips. They skipped the hot donuts though. There was a constant queue outside the Caravan of Delight and Angus and Martha were always in a hurry to get to the next entertainment. They still felt like strangers in their new neighbourhood, as self-conscious as tourists, but even so, things were looking up. Slightly.
However, four days after their visit to Frozen in Time, something unsettling occurred.
Early in the morning, as Angus was grabbing his beach towel from the front verandah railings, he noticed a strange man across the street. The man was standing under the jacaranda tree. He seemed to be watching Frozen in Time. In fact, he was watching Frozen in Time.
Angus tried to get a better look, wondering if the horrible bloke with the yellow teeth and funny chestnut hair was back again.
No, this was someone else. This new man was taller than that other creep. He was lean too, although how lean it was difficult to tell as he was wearing a long, stone-coloured trench coat — an odd choice on such a steamy morning. He also wore a Panama hat pulled so low that his face was obscured.
The stranger glanced in Angus’s direction then quickly made his way in a halting, unsteady manner back down the hill toward the end of the street.
‘Angus,’ Martha called from inside, ‘Animation Fixation’s on.’
Animation Fixation? Hmm. Maybe it was worth a look. Angus forgot the mystery man and hurried inside. Another advantage of having an absent parent — they could watch television any time of the day. Even in the morning.
Following Animation Fixation (which was seriously pathetic) and the not-so-hilarious adventures of Inspector Dougall, Dog Detective, they had the option to watch Gentle Ben, which they soon discovered was an antiquated series from the United States about a large unfortunate bear who was beholden to a family of well-meaning idiots. Or they could watch a blonde woman in tropical prints interview a selection of aged swimming champions, self-appointed film critics and swivel-mop salesmen. Or they could watch two hours of learning to read with befuddled toddlers and desperate actors.
In the end they went to the beach.
The rest of the morning passed quickly. A puppet show had been set up in a large canvas tent near the Caravan of Delight. The Donut Lady ‘pulled some wool’ (which is to say, she pulled some strings) and presented Angus and Martha with front-row tickets. She was so keen for them to attend the silly show that they couldn’t bring themselves to say no. So, just for a joke, they lined up with the sweaty crowd, handed over their rumpled tickets and sidled in.
It turned out to be really freaky, and before long, Angus and Martha were riveted. The story was about two boys and a wolfhound who travelled the world in an old wooden wardrobe, which, when tipped on its side, was actually a magical boat. There were life-size puppets and the lighting was so eerie that some of the little kids started to cry and had to be taken out. There were also sinister sound effects provided by a skinny teenager on a Hammond organ. Angus and Martha enjoyed every moment, and when they finally stepped outside, they were shocked to find that the day had turned inky black. The wind blew in mighty gusts and the puppet tent billowed, its canvas sidings snapping, its ropes straining. Only a few disorientated hippies were left on the beach; everyone else was bowing into the wind, shoving and bumping and struggling with boogie boards and beach tents, grumbling and yelling at each other as they clambered into people movers and station wagons. Some hopped on mopeds and motor scooters. Others scrambled aboard the tourist bus.
‘Get home, Angus and Martha!’ The Donut Lady waved at them urgently through the caravan servery. ‘The clouds is about to split. Run!’ She slammed down the aluminium awning.
‘Come on!’ yelled Angus as the wind hurled his cap across the grass. ‘Let’s go!’
‘What about our bikes?’ Martha clutched her beloved bag as if it might blow away too.
‘Leave ’em,’ spat Angus as a blast of sand hit him in the face. ‘We’re faster without them.’
The pair ran for home, grit and sand and street litter whipping their legs, their beach towels billowing behind them like colourful capes.
They were just outside number thirteen when a bolt of lightning rent the sky like a metal zipper and rain, too heavy to separate into drops, tipped down upon them.
‘In here,’ cried Martha, and they ducked for cover in the entrance to Frozen in Time.
They were still catching their breath and wiping the rain from their eyes when the bell tinkled and the red door opened — just a fraction.
The old woman peered through the crack. Her blue-black hair was no longer curled and glossy but hung in a coarse, tangled mass around her face and shoulders. She was wearing a heavy tartan dressing gown and enormous square sunglasses with thick white frames and rose-coloured lenses. Her fingernails were caked with dry mud. A soiled bandage was woven around her thumb and disappeared in a haphazard spiral-turn up the sleeve of her dressing gown.
‘I’m not for opening,’ she said fiercely.
Martha and Angus faltered.
‘We’ve noticed,’ said Martha.
‘Then why do you linger like silly little sugar ants?’ said the old woman, raising her voice over the thrum of the rain. ‘Why do you clutter my grand and welcoming doorway?’
‘Um ...’ began Martha and she glanced at Angus. He knew exactly what his sister was thinking — what was wrong with the old bat? Why was she suddenly so stroppy?
The old woman tipped her sunglasses and glared at the kids over the rim. She had a sickly gleam in her eyes. ‘Well?’ she said impatiently.
‘Hello?’ said Angus, bundling his towel under his arm. ‘There’s a storm. We’re taking shelter.’
‘Well, don’t be long,’ grunted the old woman. ‘You’re making my shop look ... unforgiving.’
She slammed the door so hard the little bell above the doorframe jumped out of its bracket.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
____________________________________________
An uneasy deal
The storm raged on and off for the rest of the afternoon. Martha holed up in her room and made a fancy beaded scarf. Angus got out his sketchpad and sat on the front verandah, just out of reach of the rain. As he drew, he thought about the giant otter in the shop next door. Man, it had freaked him out. Was it real or some kind of elaborate fake that was deliberately made to look old and macabre? Did otters even grow to that size? Surely not. He’d seen them at the zoo and on the telly but he’d never taken that much notice. In any case, he’d never heard of white otters. At least, not pure white like this one, and he had definitely never seen one. No way.
Angus looked up from his drawing. The rain had stopped but the sky was dark and low and the wind was temperamental. It was even hotter now, and clammy. Steam rose from the asphalt. Water gushed down the gutters, gurgling into drains choked with leaves and shredded jacaranda blooms. Everything smelt ... green.
Angus looked out across the street.
The mysterious stranger was back.
Angus slid off his chair and ducked behind the potted fig at the top of the steps. He looked out between the leaves.
The stranger was in the same position as that morning. Once more he was waiting. Watching.
He was dressed in the same trench coat too, only this time he carried a red umbrella. The umbrella was open, even though the rain had stopped.
Several minutes passed as the man stood perfectly still, only moving to raise the umbrella and peer out from under it. He was still wearing the Panama hat.
Martha came out, devouring a chicken leg.
‘What’s up?’ She frowned when she saw her brother hunched behind the fig.
Ang
us gestured for her to join him. ‘I’m watching him,’ he whispered.
Martha gasped. ‘Who is he?’ she asked, peeking through the leaves.
‘Not sure, but he was there this morning too.’
‘He’s watching the shop!’ exclaimed Martha.
‘Possibly,’ said Angus.
‘Is it that creep from the other day?’ asked Martha suddenly. ‘The “why aren’t you in school” pinhead?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Angus. ‘This is someone else.’
‘I’m getting the binoculars,’ said Martha, and she tossed the chicken leg into the garden and dashed back inside.
When she finally came back, Angus was on his chair with his sketchpad on his knee.
‘He’s gone,’ he said casually.
‘No way!’ said Martha, swinging down the front steps.
‘He just shut his umbrella, pulled down his hat and left,’ said Angus. ‘He sort of shuffled and wobbled then took off down the hill.’
Martha jumped over the gate and looked down the street. A few drops of rain splashed her binoculars. A lone bird wheeled above the treetops and thunder rumbled in the distance. She ducked across the road.
She swung the binoculars this way and that, then looked back at their house. It was like seeing it through the eyes of a stranger. Martha cringed. The house was a mess. The roof was the colour of outback dirt and a secret garden was sprouting in the guttering. The verandah sloped sideways too, as if the whole house was slowly sinking south. She moved the binoculars to the front garden and hesitated. Something was missing.
She fiddled with the binoculars, focused them on their verandah and then gazed down the front path.
She ran back across the road and up the steps to her brother. ‘Gurdy’s gone,’ she cried.
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Angus.
‘But when? How? Why?’
‘Who knows?’ said Angus. ‘I only noticed this morning. But he could have been gone for days.’
‘Oh! We should never have put him out the front, Angus. I knew it was dangerous!’
‘Yeah. I s’pose.’
‘Maybe someone sent him on holiday,’ said Martha hopefully. ‘People do that to garden gnomes, you know. We might get a postcard ... from Paris or somewhere.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Angus. ‘He’s probably been grabbed by vandals and thrown off the pier.’
‘That’s horrible!’ cried Martha.
‘Yeah, well, life’s horrible,’ said Angus. ‘And this neighbourhood sucks.’
The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. Customers came and went from Frozen in Time while the kids discussed the disappearance of Gurdy the garden gnome. Martha was not going to give him up easily. She came up with all sorts of silly theories — Gurdy was somewhere next door in Frozen in Time, the Prof had taken him to work and forgotten to tell them, the gnome was with Jarly the cat and their disappearances were linked ... But deep down Angus was sure Gurdy had been stolen as part of some stupid prank — he’d probably been picked up by local hoods, the kind of boneheads who did wheelies and burnouts late at night on the esplanade.
In the dead of night, Angus woke with that old familiar feeling again, only this time it was worse. He felt empty inside, completely alone. He didn’t think it was to do with his mother. This was something else. He had carried this feeling since he was a little kid. Since before his mother died. It was as if he was craving something. Something he’d never had, yet always missed ...
He lay quietly and listened to the night. The occasional car sped down the street. Far off, a police siren wailed. He could hear the sea too. The shore break sounded heavy and mournful.
He rolled over. As he drifted back to sleep, he was only partly aware of the music. It floated through his clouded mind. It was a willow flute. Breathy, unearthly. He could not recall ever having heard such music and yet ... he knew this sound so well. He had always known it. He wanted to go to the window. He wanted to search for the source of the music. But he was overcome with sleep — he could not will himself to rise. In his dreams, he saw ice and swirling mists, his breath lingered before him in damp plumes, crisp, white snow crunched beneath his feet. There was a boat. A long, wooden boat. Angus reached out to touch it — and slid into darkness.
‘I feel cruddy this morning,’ said Martha, reaching for the Frosty Loops.
‘Martha, you need to stop using that word,’ said Angus, slinging bowls and spoons onto the table. ‘It’s becoming a habit. Cruddy this. Cruddy that. You need to extend your vocabulary, otherwise people will never take you seriously.’
‘Crud,’ muttered Martha.
Angus sighed and turned to put the toast on. He felt out of sorts himself this morning but he couldn’t pinpoint why. Had he slept last night? Well, obviously he had. He couldn’t remember a thing after he turned out the light ...
He took the bread out of the packet and dropped it into the toaster. He couldn’t wait to get out of this boiling hothouse, couldn’t wait to get to the beach. The sea always made him feel better. The sea almost made him feel ... whole.
The kids rescued their bikes from where they had dumped them the previous day, and stood looking out over the beach. It was quieter than usual. A few joggers pounded along the boardwalk. Half a dozen black-dot surfers bobbed on the horizon. Things would pick up when people realised the storm had passed.
The carnival was gearing up for the day. A few ‘carnies’ in sleeveless flannelette shirts and military shorts sat on the edge of the retaining wall, dangling their tattooed legs, smoking cigarettes and sipping coffee from polystyrene cups. The old bloke who ran the puppet show was hosing down a merry-go-round. Angus wondered why anyone would get a tattoo of bluebirds on their neck ...
‘Martha, Angus,’ called a familiar voice. ‘You like some treats?’
‘Excellent,’ said Angus. ‘Second breakfast.’
The pair laid their bikes under a pine tree and scrambled up the hill.
‘It was a big storm, yes?’ said the Donut Lady as she poured batter into a sizzling vat.
‘We got drenched,’ said Martha, ‘and we were only in it for two seconds.’
‘So you make it home in time?’ said the Donut Lady.
‘Kind of,’ said Angus. ‘We hung out in front of Frozen in Time for a while.’
‘Frozen in Time?’ The Donut Lady wiped her gooey fingers. ‘You take shelter at Reafen’s?’
‘Is that her name?’ said Martha.
‘Hey, yeah.’ Angus turned to Martha. ‘Remember? When you were looking at the snow dome, she said, “Reafen’s special viewing box.”’
‘You have been in the shop?’ The Donut Lady scowled at them.
‘Oh yes,’ said Martha. ‘We were in there for hours. There was heaps to look at and Reafen was ... nice. Sort of.’
The Donut Lady was becoming red-faced. Angus gave Martha another nudge, willing her to shut up, at least until they got their donuts.
‘You spend hours in Reafen’s shop? Are you fools? Are you numbskulls? This is no place for children.’ The Donut Lady shook her head.
‘It’s just a junk shop,’ said Angus.
‘Trust me, boy.’ The Donut Lady leaned over the servery and poked him with her spatula. ‘I know the ones like her. You must bevare of this type.’
‘But why?’ Martha’s eyes were wide.
‘Ahh,’ sighed the Donut Lady, shaking her head sadly. ‘Here, eat,’ she said, handing them each a bag of hot donuts. ‘Your father. He is well?’
The kids hesitated.
‘Sure,’ said Angus.
The Donut Lady eyed him suspiciously.
‘How do you know our father?’ said Angus.
‘He jogs, he buys drinks, we talk.’ The Donut Lady shrugged her strong shoulders. ‘He is handsome, yes? Educated too ...’
‘He’s a professor,’ said Angus.
‘Of economic history,’ added Martha. ‘Blah.’
‘He is nosey,’ said the Donut Lady. ‘He likes to
poke around in the past, in the world’s paraphernalia.’
‘He never used to,’ said Angus. ‘He never used to care about that stuff. Only graphs and theories and statistics.’
‘But these days the past is all he ever thinks about,’ said Martha. ‘The past and his selfish self.’
The Donut Lady frowned as she mulled this over.
Angus made to leave — they’d already said too much and the last thing he wanted was an interrogation about their father. Their father was their business, no-one else’s. Why did Martha always have to blab about such personal matters?
‘Has Vladimir come back?’ asked Martha, breaking a donut and blowing at the steam.
‘Ah, Vlad,’ sighed the Donut Lady. ‘He prowl along the boardwalk all night. He sit on the bollards and cry at the moon. But he never come when I call. He will not come since the robbery. It is a sad thing when even a cat will not listen to an old woman.’
The Donut Lady dabbed her eyes on the corner of her apron.
‘He’ll come back,’ said Angus. ‘Our cat always does.’
A jogger in red satin shorts and a white basketball singlet joined them. He looked down his nose at Angus. Angus stepped aside. You might be tall and pumped like Iron Man, he thought, but you smell like a ferret.
‘Off you go, children,’ said the Donut Lady as she went about serving the jogger. ‘And remember what I tell you.’
‘We will,’ cried Martha as they ran down the hill. ‘Thank you, Donut Lady!’
One day they would ask her what her real name was.
Over the next couple of days, the weather was murky and the beach was a lonely, grey place strewn with seaweed and cuttlefish bones. The Prof was working even longer hours and had started leaving the house before the kids even got up.
Martha and Angus moped about at home. Their only entertainment was the tall, mysterious stranger who appeared across the road at the same time each morning and afternoon. Is this what our lives have come to? Angus wondered. Stuck in a festering shack, no friends, a runaway father, and nothing to fill their time except spying on other losers. Martha, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind. She insisted Angus draw a bunch of ‘identikit’ sketches while she made notes about the stranger’s appearance — descriptions of his coat, his hat and the odd way he walked. Martha even searched for clues under the jacaranda tree but all she found was an empty wrapper labelled Gim: Dried Seaweed.